Russian Nights
by johnsarmylady
Summary: A ruthless drug gang, homeless teenagers, Sherlock and John - a lethal combination? Sequel to Russian Roulette. Rated T for drug use.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so I was persuaded (it wasn't hard to do really!) to write a sequel to Russian Roulette by Jack63kids. Protesting that I have a busy week ahead, I then put aside all thoughts about the stuff I'm supposed to be doing and…well, here is the first chapter – I hope you like it, and if you do – review please, it helps me write more!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

The small figure hurried, hunched against the November wind, along the Victoria Embankment towards Temple Pier. Pulling her too thin coat around her emaciated frame she checked over her shoulder for what was possibly the hundredth time. As she passed under Waterloo Bridge her journey was watched by a pair of eyes that peered out from a pile of rags and cardboard. A head of greasy blond hair turned slowly to follow her progress, and as she moved away the rags and cardboard stirred, and a slender woman stood up and turned away towards the Embankment Gardens and the cabbies coffee bar under the railway bridge at Charing Cross station.

Back on the Embankment a large figure stepped out of the shadow into the failing light, silhouetted against the river wall, an anonymous shadow in the London night. "You made the delivery? You have the money?" There was no warmth to be found in that harsh, accented voice. With a sniff the girl nodded, dug into her pocket and handed over a tatty package. In exchange she received a smaller package, about the size of a matchbox, and her eyes lit up. With a happy smile she closed her fist around her bounty and retraced her steps. When she looked around again the street was empty, but she didn't care, she had what she needed!

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The sharp blue eyes scanned the comings and goings under the railway bridge, looking for one particular person. She hadn't been there long when she spotted him, his familiar military cut blond hair, the black jacket and jeans that were now his standard uniform. Despite wearing warm woollen gloves he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his collar was turned up against the cold.

"Doc!"

He looked in the direction of the voice, smiled a genuinely warm smile and hurried over to join her.

"Kallie" his eyes scanned her, looking for tell-tale signs of illness. "How are you? Have you eaten today?"

"One question at a time Doc," she laughed "Yeah I'm good – won't say no to a bacon buttie though!" John Watson's smile broadened "Wait here." And he moved swiftly over to the coffee bar.

A short while later, with a bacon sandwich inside her and her hands wrapped around a warm mug of very sweet tea, Kallie was telling John everything she knew about the new 'gang' recruiting homeless kids. It wasn't a pretty tale, but she was fairly certain that none of the network had become mixed up with them.

"This latest one though, Doc, I swear she can't be more than fifteen!" Kallie shook her head "I tried to warn her but she ran like a startled hare!"

"Do you know where she is now?"

"She was headed up the Embankment – she'll be long gone now."

"Thank you Kallie. If you see her again, try to get her to talk to you, see if you can persuade her to listen." For a moment John stared absent-mindedly at the girl's blue tinged fingers before suddenly pulling his gloves off and handing them over to her. "Here, have these. Can't have your fingers dropping off with frostbite can we?" he smiled again as she acquiesced.

Inside the gloves was tucked a twenty pound note. She felt it as she slid her hands into the already warm material, and looked at John with a questioning frown.

"Yeah, I know you don't like to take food _and_ money Kallie, but this cold spell isn't going to break anytime soon, and I'd rather know you can at least get yourself and the others a hot drink or some food." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm headed back to Baker Street now; if you hear anything else you know how to reach us."

She nodded and John gave her a brief wave before turning away and hailing a cab. As he looked back she had already melted away into the crowd.

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Fear drove her steps faster back along the embankment, further now, she wanted safety, she wanted somewhere away from the night-time crowds. Up and over Waterloo Bridge, not stopping until she reached a secluded area of Jubilee Park almost hidden under the bridge carrying the railway away to South London.

With shaking fingers she pulled her drug paraphernalia out of her jeans pocket. She had remembered to visit the needle exchange earlier in the day, in anticipation of tonight's fix. Her man had been generous. Too often the promised supply was barely enough to dull the pain of living alone on the streets, but Micha had delivered, and there was enough here to ensure she wouldn't care how cold it was, or how empty her belly. She sat down and prepared for oblivion.

Midnight saw her laughing, swaying along the road, grinning maniacally at the passers-by who were trying to avoid brushing against her. In the distance she heard a song, up-tempo and happy. She knew this song, loved it even. It made her think of time when life was so much easier, and she started to sing along, tears streaming down her face in total contrast to the joy of the lyrics.

One am found her lying on the parapet of Westminster Bridge, still singing but this time a haunting song of her own imagining. Her thin arms were extended towards the stars, as if she would reach up and capture them for her own pleasure and amusement. Giggling quietly, she laced her fingers together and looked through them, trying to frame a star between each lattice. Talking to them as if they were her children this child of the streets went unnoticed, unloved, even the stars were cold towards her. Slowly the arms returned to her sides, the songs and the laughter faded, pale lids closed over eyes that were too huge for the elfin face.

Nobody saw the convulsions that shook the pitiful frame still lying on the wall over the river, nobody heard the choking, gasping breaths, and as the body succumbed to the icy embrace of the Thames no one was there to mourn the child who was dead before the waters closed over her head.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not sure if this is quite how I want it, but it's posted none the less. Please review – tell me if you like it, tell me if you don't – just tell me….please? Special thanks to Jack63kids and MapleleafCameo for support and encouragement.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Sherlock was bored. He lay on the couch staring at the laptop screen (John noted vaguely that it was his laptop – _again_!) as if willing a case to appear in front of him. With a frustrated sigh he turned his gaze to his flatmate. "What about the papers? Anything?"

"Another politician in trouble over expenses?"

"Really John?" the silver-grey eyes turned to stare at the ceiling.

"Okay then, "John turned the page, "missing prize-winning dog? Tipped for stardom at…" his voice tailed off and his body stilled.

Sherlock swung up into a sitting position, instantly alert. "What?"

Wordlessly John handed the paper over, folded so the story that had caught his eye was uppermost. The article had been so small that he might have missed it were it not for the picture of a young girl smiling out of a school photograph, a girl John recognised from Kallie's description. And the headline read 'BODY WASHED UP ON SOUTH BANK IS RUNAWAY SCHOOLGIRL JENNY'.

Sherlock quickly scanned the story – the body had been found two days ago while he and John had still been in hospital, yet it was only now she had been identified and despite her youth it seemed an erring politician warranted bigger headlines. He looked up again at John, a question in his eyes. John nodded briefly and with no need for discussion they left the flat and hailed the first cab they saw.

"Scotland Yard" Sherlock said tersely as they climbed in, and once they were moving looked again at John. "This is the girl Kallie saw?"

"Dunno for sure, but it certainly sounds like the girl she described to me," he pulled his jacket closer around him, unaccountably cold despite the warm jumper and shirt he wore underneath. "Did Mycroft come up with anything on the CCTV footage?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The bastards are clever, they are either choosing areas where the coverage is sparse, or they never look in the direction of the camera."

"Jesus, Sherlock, if only I'd been able to…"

"Stop it John! There was nothing you could have done." You know, sometimes he just wanted to shake the doctor sitting next to him! "They found her the day after you met with Kallie, chances are she was already dead or close to by the time you got home that night."

John stared at him, deep down he knew he'd never be able to change the way these people chose to live their lives, how they might eventually die, but somehow he always felt responsible.

Sherlock gave a slight smile. "You can't save them all, John, but the little things you do for them – the medical checks, giving them your gloves, your money…"

"How the hell did you….oh, don't bother! It's probably something to do with the way I closed the door to the flat, or…"

"No, don't be more idiotic than you need to be John. It's the way you shoved your hands into your pockets to keep them, warm when I distinctly remember you buying yourself some gloves when we started on the Russian case – you said, if I recall,…."

"Yes, alright Sherlock, you've made your point. Still doesn't stop me feeling bad about it though!"

The cab pulled up in front of New Scotland Yard. While John paid the fare, Sherlock was dashing up the stairs to the front doors, his mind more on the potential case in hand and less on his state of health, so when a young police officer, hurrying in the opposite direction, knocked against his injured side the air whooshed out of his lungs and he clutched momentarily at the handrail.

"I'm s..sorry Sir.." the officer stammered "are you alright?"

John appeared at Sherlocks side at that precise moment and put a hand under his elbow "He'll be fine" he said shortly, waving the man away before turning his attention to his friend. "Okay? Take a deep breath and relax."

"This isn't an ante-natal class!" the consulting detective hissed angrily.

"Just as well, 'cause you're not pregnant." John was unfazed "You are, however, still recovering from a bullet wound that would have put most men in hospital for a week!" he held up his hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to make a cutting remark. "Yes, and we all know that you are not 'most men' so don't bother Sherlock! Just do as you're told. You'll be no good to your homeless network if you don't slow down a bit!"

Sherlock knew John was right – didn't like the fact one little bit – but he acknowledged the truth in the other man's words. In many ways they were very much alike, these diverse friends.

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No one knew his real name, only the name he chose to use on the streets. In the beginning Sim had been more streetwise than most of the runaways that ended up in London, looking for that elusive something that would make their world right. He'd been here for five years now, and much older in spirit than his twenty one years.

As he stood in the shelter of a boarded up shop doorway his keen eyes scanned the pavements, looking for a friendly face or an easy mark – someone to rattle his tin at, to beg money from. "Spare change please Sir?" the words rolled easily off his tongue "Change for a cup 'o tea Lady?" His luck wasn't with him today though, as everyone that passed stared steadfastly forward, not making eye contact yet not blatantly turning away, just not feeling charitable. Ever the pragmatist he crossed his arms over his chest and stuffed his hands tight under his armpits – warmer than his pockets – sunk his head into his shoulders and scurried out of his shelter heading towards the arches on the south side of Vauxhall bridge. As he headed away from the crowds and the well-lit streets a figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.

"I'm looking for someone to run a little errand for me." He spoke in heavily accented English. Sim looked him up and down, smiled briefly and replied "What's in it for me then?"

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Greg Lestrade should have seen this coming. He should have known the minute the story hit the papers that Sherlock and John would appear in his office as if by magic. As he watched the two men stride through the open plan main office he braced himself to face the barrage of questions. He was surprised though when it was John, and not Sherlock who opened the conversation.

"Another homeless girl Greg. Do you know the cause of death yet?"

"Good morning to you too, John, how're you feeling now? Still having those odd flashbacks?"

John didn't bother to answer. He dropped into the chair by Greg's desk while Sherlock prowled around the office.

"Why weren't we called as soon as she was found?

"Sherlock!" Greg was exasperated "You were in hospital! I wasn't even aware of it myself until today! The team handled it while I took a few hours out, okay?"

"I need to see the case notes."

"Look, I'm not sure.."

"Greg" John interrupted him. "You remember what I said about Kallie, about how she thought someone has been using the homeless to run drugs and paying them off in pure stuff? She described the latest runner to me – I think it's this Jenny that you fished out of the river. We need to get the facts about this, we need to stop them."

Greg looked from John to Sherlock, and back again. Another heartbeat, then he made his mind up and stood, looking through the window and beckoning to a figure at the far side of the office. The silence stretched as they waited for the newcomer.

At last the door opened and Anderson stepped through, a smirk plastered across his face.

"Someone here owes me a great big 'Thank You'!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for your reviews so far – they mean a lot! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

The silence hung over Greg's office like a thick fog. Sherlock turned slowly to face the forensics officer, a cold look of disdain marring his handsome features, but John was quickly on his feet and walking toward Anderson, his hand outstretched towards him.

"Yes, yes I know! Thank you Anderson, you saved me a few uncomfortable nights in a police cell that's for sure!" he said with smile and a handshake, throwing the other man into a state of confusion. Then changing the subject he continued "Is that the report on the body from the Thames? May I?" and he took the file Anderson had been holding and turned away.

"_Oh, nicely done!"_ Greg thought. Aloud he said "Thanks Anderson, that's all." And watched as an expression of thwarted revenge stole across the other man's face as he left the office.

John and Sherlock stood by the window reading through the report. The girl had been found on the river bank by Tower Bridge, just south of where the battle cruiser HMS Belfast is moored, but she could have entered the water anywhere as the currents were strong and the river still tidal at that point. John read the description of the clothes she wore – in his mind no doubt now that this was the girl that had been described to him. His heart sank, he felt sick. As a doctor, an army doctor at that, most people thought he'd developed an immunity to the effects of this type of tragedy. Sherlock and Greg both knew that to be untrue, and so when he turned away from the pictures of the pathetic remains to stare out of the window neither man commented.

"John?" at last Sherlock broke the silence; his voice however was quietly tentative. John looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question. "Do you think Kallie might recognise her from the photographs?"

John swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. "She got a good look at her, so yes, I should think so."

"Lestrade, we'll need clear pictures of her face and clothing as soon as possible."

"Take those."

They were swiftly snatched up and thrust into an inner pocket in Sherlock's coat. "Come John!" he ordered as he swept out of the room.

John hesitated. "Thanks Greg."

The older man shrugged "S'alright, mate. You okay? I mean, the effects of that stuff….?"

"Yeah, more or less" John gave a ghost of a grin "Still having fun dreams though!" he looked through the door to see that Sherlock had disappeared completely "Better go." And with a brief wave he hurried away.

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Sim knew he only had a few hours before he had to meet the man who was to give him the goods that he was to deliver. He didn't know where he was going yet, but the promise of an Angel fix as payment was enough to quiet any questions – for now. Taking a pull on the cigarette he'd rolled from the dregs of cigarette ends he'd collected and pulled apart he leant against the wall, his eyes lazily scanning the movements of the other homeless people living under the Vauxhall arches, but it was cold, and many of the inhabitant of that ragged community were shuffling down under their cardboard shelters and trying to generate some warmth as the late afternoon chill deepened.

Pushing himself off the wall he strolled away towards the river and the meeting place. The man, Micha, had been quite specific about not being late. He would be well paid, but he'd have to do as he was told. Sim smiled. He'd do as he was told, for now.

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Neither man had uttered a word since leaving Lestrades office. Sherlock sent a lengthy text, then sat back against the cab seat to think. John just stared out of the window. The journey was relatively short, and soon they were walking briskly along Villiers Street, eyes scanning for a known face.

"Big Issue, latest Big Issue?"

"What's in it?" Sherlock didn't make eye contact with the seller as he dug into his pocket for required coins. "Lost and found ads?"

"Who've you lost?"

"Kallie. Need a meet" handing the money over Sherlock took the magazine rolled in up and put it into his pocket.

"Will do." The man turned away from the consulting detective and raised his voice again. "Big Issue! Get your Big Issue here!"

John had walked on, not wishing to draw attention to Sherlock and his networker. He was staring at the menu in a café window when Sherlock joined him.

"Home I think John. We need to plan our next move."

"Kallie?"

"Will be in touch." He raised his arm to hail a passing cab. "I need more data John!"

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From the outside the house was unremarkable. It was this very anonymity that made it the ideal base for Alexia Katerinochkins drugs operation, no one cared about the comings and goings at all hours, the area was too poor and the residents too uninterested in that which didn't directly affect themselves. The lady herself was sitting in the living room, a delicate teacup held in one hand, the fingers of the other tapping thoughtfully on the arm of the plush covered chair.

"This new one – he is reliable?" She turned her eyes towards her gang master, assessing his body language as she waited for his answer.

Micha calmly returned the stare. "He runs for the first time tonight. He is intelligent; if he is needy he didn't let it show in our negotiations."

Katerinochkin nodded. "If he is fast, and does well tonight, give him the weaker grade. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves. Besides, he may be useful to us. I want to know how so much of our operation could have been compromised, if he's as intelligent as you think we could make use of him. The detective and his tame doctor are still alive, and they must be dealt with once and for all!"

Micha nodded. Fasse was noticeable by his absence. While everyone in the organisation was aware that he had bungled the shooting of the man who had all but destroyed this very lucrative business, no one knew, or was brave enough to ask where the Turk was now.

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Sherlock lay on the couch, eyes closed, steepled fingers resting against his lips. Molly had e-mailed the post mortem report and had rechecked the bloods as he had requested when he texted her. Sure enough the results were identical to those he had obtained from Johns blood – PCP, almost pure, a fix big enough to floor even the most resistant user. John had been lucky.

"Tea." The voice interrupted his thoughts, and Sherlock looked up to see John standing over him. The steaming beverage had been placed on the coffee table beside him. His eyes skimmed over the doctor.

"Going out?"

"Yeah. Need a bit of fresh air. Head's still a bit muzzy from the drugs."

Sherlock knew John hadn't slept well, attributing that fact to the odd drug-induced dreams that still clung to his subconscious. His eyes narrowed, and he nodded slightly as if to acknowledge unspoken words. "I know you're worried about the homeless network John, I share your concern."

John's eyebrows rose until they almost disappeared into his hairline. Sherlock continued to look steadily at him.

"You think me incapable of feeling concern?"

"No," John shook his head, smiling broadly "I just thought you incapable of admitting it!" and he headed out of the door before even Sherlock's quick wit could form a response!


	4. Chapter 4

**If you like, please review – if you don't like, please tell me so! Reviews (good or bad) mean a lot, so thank you for taking the time to write! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Mycroft sighed as his phoned pinged loudly into the quiet of the Diogenes Club. Although he was in his own rooms he still maintained the rules laid down for the member's areas, and so he was a little cross with himself for not putting his mobile on silent.

Frowning down at the screen he was a little surprised to see that it was John, and not Sherlock, that had contacted him, and he was more than a little intrigued.

'_Can we talk? – JW'_

An eyebrow rose. Curiouser and curiouser!

'_Where are you? – MH'_

'_Regents Park. – JW'_

'_Be at Gloucester Gate. 5 minutes. – MH'_

Sitting back in the wing chair in front of the blazing fire Mycroft pondered for a moment or two then pulled the elaborate bell chord that hung against the wall and waited for the club's butler to appear.

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John welcomed the warmth inside the car that had appeared promptly at his side as he reached the rendezvous point. As always it stopped outside the club and the quick dash across the pavement and in through the heavy oak doors was short enough not to dissipate that warmth.

He was shown directly to Mycroft's rooms, and as he entered his eyes were drawn to the two chairs ranged either side of the fire, and the tray laden with tea pot, milk cups and biscuits that sat on a table between them.

"Come in John, have a seat." Mycroft leaned forward and started to pour the tea. "I thought this would be better than offering you a drink – I imagine you still have residual PCP in your system." It was a statement rather than a question. John thought about it as he took off his jacket and sat down.

"I suppose I probably have." He said after a pause, then "Thank you, tea's great."

There was an almost companionable silence as both men sipped the warm brew and stared into the flames. At last Mycroft drew his eyes away from the fire and looked steadily at the man who sat next to him.

"What is it that you need to say to me that can't be said in earshot of my little brother?"

John was startled out of his reverie. "Oh…err…nothing like that, it's just…." He cleared his throat a little nervously before continuing "it's more a thought that occurred as I was walking."

Mycroft's eyes never left his face. John seemed to be looking into the distance, seeing something only he could see. After a moment the older man interrupted his thoughts.

"I fail to see how I can help if you don't tell me what it is you need."

"Sorry!" John gave an embarrassed laugh "Truth is, I don't know that you _can_ help. Have you read the papers….the girl in the river…" he waited for Mycroft's acknowledgement before continuing "I'm sure she's a victim of that Russian gang. If they're still operating here and using the homeless then hers won't the last death."

"And you want me to…..?"

John frowned. "I'm not sure – watch for anything suspicious on the streets? Use your CCTV to keep an eye out for them?"

"John, John! London's a big place." This was said gently, as if to a child.

"Yes, I know that!" John interrupted before Mycroft could make one of his customary cutting remarks "but if you can keep an eye on the places most frequented by homeless people, particularly the embankment, Charing Cross, areas like that? Look, I know it's a big ask, but this was your case after all! Don't you care whether or not we can finally break this organisation?" He stopped, conscious of the fact that he had come close to shouting at his host. He looked a little subdued as he met the other man's eye. "Sorry. I shouldn't have…"

"No John, maybe you shouldn't. You are right though, this was my case and yes I do want to see them broken, if only for what they did to my little brother and to you." He put his cup back on the tray and rose to his feet, forcing John to stand also. "Leave it with me and I will see what I can do."

It was obvious this interview was over. John shook the offered hand and left.

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"I see you managed to extract a promise of help from my brother, John" Sherlock looked as though he had not moved so much as a finger since John had gone out for his walk.

"How did you know?"

"You look happier," the bright silver-grey eyes flicked up and down, rapidly reading him. "You are more relaxed, and warmer than you would have been if you had been walking the streets for an hour and a half!" A small smile broke through "Did he offer you cake?"

John grinned. "Biscuits – very expensive, Belgian chocolate." Dropping into his favourite chair he added "I've asked him to look out for the homeless, Sherlock. Y'know, an extra pair of eyes. If we can stop them before anyone else gets hurt…." He stopped as he saw the look on Sherlocks face. They both knew more deaths were likely before the case was finished. "You got anything?"

"Meeting Kallie." Sherlock said, rolling gracefully off the settee and stepping on and over the coffee table in one smooth movement. "I need you to go to Bart's to look at Jenny's clothes before her family come to collect them. There may be something there that can help us." Grabbing his coat he swept through the door and down the stairs, calling back as he did so "Meet me on the Embankment by Cleopatra's Needle – eight o'clock!"

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Sim whistled through his teeth. This was going to be so easy – a drop off at the Borough Market (not so very far if you walk fast and keep warm) then back to the Embankment Gardens, to drop the money and collect his 'earnings'. Micha had intimated there would be more, and bigger, paydays if he was quick honest and above all discrete. He liked the way this man did business!

He moved swiftly along the back streets, the few pedestrians hurrying along the same paths as him were huddled into winter coats and warm scarves, thinking only of their destination. At last, entering the now deserted glass and steel structure Sim slowed his pace, his senses acutely attuned to his surroundings, the dark corners where danger could lurk, where a slip of the concentration could be the last thing you do.

On light feet he walked deeper into the market building towards the now closed and shuttered tea bar. As he approached he saw the woman, his contact for this job, leaning against the front of the building. Sims eyes were never still, his gaze taking in every corner and shop front, every closed stall and rubbish pile as he crossed the space between them.

"Cold night." She spoke with a London accent, not cockney, but certainly hailing from North of the river. A bit out of her area then, Sim noted as he replied "But it'll be colder before spring." He stifled a chuckle – talk about James Bond!

This was daft! She must have read his mind however as she curled her lip contemptuously. "You wouldn't think this so stupid if I turned out to be an undercover copper!"

"Nah – you don't smell like a copper!"

"Do you have my stuff?" she held her hand out. Sim looked around before pulling the package out of his pocket.

"Got the dosh?"

"The money? Yes." And she too removed a package from a pocket in her thick anorak. "It's all there, sealed. Do you know how much you're carrying?

"Don't know, don't care!" a prickling at the back of his neck alerted Sim to the possibility of a trap, or a test of some kind. "You want this stuff or not? I ain't got all night."

With a nod she handed over the money, received the goods in return, and with a cold smile turned on her heel and walked away into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter's a bit shorter than I would like – sorry! **

**Thanks to all my reviewers, to everyone who is following or has favourited – hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Two things happened in the vicinity of Victoria Embankment at eight o'clock that evening: John Watson, ex-army doctor strode purposefully out of Embankment underground station, turning left as he exited the building, making his way towards Cleopatra's Needle. At the same time from the opposite direction, having just passed the stone monument in question, came a scruffy looking youth, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched and head down. As they crossed the road, each intent on reaching his destination they collided, the force almost knocking the younger man over. John's reactions however were still as sharp as the day he passed out of Sandhurst, and he caught the young man before he could fall.

"Sorry…"

"Fuck off geezer!"

John was taken aback, but the youth was gone before he could gather his wits leaving the older man in serious danger of being run over if he didn't get out of the middle of the road! Pushing the incident to the back of his mind he resumed his journey.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, his face turned towards the river. The reflection of the street lights was dancing on the choppy water but the consulting detective didn't see them, he was deep in thought.

"Sherlock?" John called his name a second time. The tall man beside him seemed to jump out of his reverie, inhaled sharply through his nose and turned to greet his friend.

"John! Anything from the clothes? I'm assuming not as you caught the tube from the Barbican."

"And you know this because….?"

Sherlock grinned. "No cab pulled up at the roadside behind me - obvious John!"

John chuckled at that, then "And you know I found nothing. How?"

"If you had found something you would have come in a cab. You want to stop these people – you said so yourself – so you would have wanted to be here with the information before I arrived."

"Amazing!"

"Predictable."

John rolled his eyes. "Did Kallie identify the dead girl?"

There was a long pause, then "Kallie didn't turn up."

"Wait. What? What do you mean she didn't turn up? She'd never not turn up, Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned back to look out over the river. A Thames Lighter, one of the few still working, moved slowly down river, passing a patrolling police launch fresh out of its base in Wapping. Sherlock watched them in silence for a moment. "She wanted to meet me away from the usual places John, she was…" he hesitated slightly "afraid. I could hear it in her voice, she was afraid of something – or someone – so we arranged to meet near Lincoln's Inn."

"But she didn't show. You waited though, in case she was just late?" A slight nod was his only answer, and John felt his heart turn to ice. "What now then? You wanted me to meet you here - why?"

"Oh. Yes." Turning his collar up Sherlock turned to walk along the embankment to Waterloo Bridge "I wanted to show you something."

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Earlier that evening….

Kallie looked over her shoulder and her heart started to race. She knew she wasn't imagining it, that man had been hanging around the taxi rank, trying not to look obvious and failing miserably. She'd clocked him straight away – he was so out of place. She saw him again a little while later, standing outside a coffee shop, cardboard cup in hand, his eyes on her when he thought she wasn't looking. Chills ran down her spine. Slipping into a greasy spoon café she begged to be allowed to use the toilet – only the sharpest of observers would have noticed the slight flicker of the eyes as the owner threatened dire consequences if she tried to steal anything.

John-Joseph, the café owner was once a lost soul, living rough on the street, until one of Sherlock's grateful clients expansively offered the detective an obscenely large amount of money as a bonus for a job well done. The detective had shaken his head, saying instead that the case would not have been solved were it not for the ragged and dirty teenager who had found the blackmailers hideout, and that if he wanted to do some good with his money there was a failing sandwich bar just off Villiers Street that he could probably buy for half what he had offered to pay – he should set John-Joseph up and give him the chance to make something of his life. That was five years ago, when Sherlock himself had just 'got clean' and was building his reputation as a consulting detective, and neither party had looked back since. Now John-Joseph knew most – if not all – of Sherlocks network, and they knew they could get hold of the man himself through the café whose owner kept a charged mobile in a hidden alcove that was passed on route to the toilets. They could use it at any time they needed to, and it was on this phone that Kallie set up their meeting.

As she left the café she surreptitiously looked around – he was gone. Taking a deep breath and drawing on the gloves that Doctor John had given her, Kallie melted into the crowds.

Her route took her away from the evening crowds, the restaurant and theatre goers, to a quieter area where the offices were closed and there were fewer people on the streets. A prickle up her spine warned her that something wasn't right. She glanced over her shoulder and sure enough, there he was again, walking swiftly behind her his long stride bringing him closer. Kallie didn't hesitate – she bolted, running as fast as she could, panic adding speed to her feet, but as she glanced over her shoulder she could see he was gaining on her. She was terrified! The sound of his feet pounding the pavements behind her warred with the pounding of her heart in her ears, she looked desperately around to see if anyone had seen her, had seen him, but the streets were deserted. Running blindly now she swerved right, down a dark narrow pavement, and if she didn't know better she could have sworn she heard her pursuer chuckle. Risking another glance behind her she saw him slow to a walk. In the harsh street lighting she saw him smile. Then a pair of solid muscular arms grabbed her and held her firm.

"You're coming with us!"


	6. Chapter 6

**To MapleleafCameo, Jack63Kids, Arty Diane, Hummingbird1759, Secretmoustache and Sugar Coating, thank you so much for the reviews, they really keep me going, especially at those times when the plot (or lack thereof) seems to overwhelm me! To everyone who had read, favourited, followed but not reviewed, thanks for staying with it. Please review if you can, good or bad, I love to know what you think!**

**Warning: Drug use.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Sim silently cursed the man that almost knocked him over, and swore loudly at him as he tried to apologise. But then, the other man couldn't have known that Sim just didn't want to be late delivering the money, Micha was not going to hire him again if he was late. Jogging the rest of the way he could just hear the distant chimes of Big Ben as he slipped into the darkness of the park, his keen eyes immediately spotting the bulky figure loitering just out of sight of the travellers moving in and out of the underground station. As Sim approached he held out his hand.

"The money." He said flatly. Without a word Sim slapped the package into his hand and he stepped back further into the shadows, swiftly opening it and counting the contents. "You have done well, Sim," his teeth flashed white in the darkness, and for the first time Sim wondered about this man. "Your payment – take it!" This was said a little harshly as Sim, wrapped up in his thoughts, had obviously not heard him the first time, and the young man snapped his head up to look at the Russian before holding out his hand for the smaller package, for his angel fix. As he turned to go Micha's large hand grasped his arm. "Tomorrow Sim, same time, behind St Martin in the Fields Church. Payment as before" then he was gone.

Sim watched him walk away before finding himself a shelter squeezed between the tourist information shack and the wall of the underground station. With practiced fingers he flipped back the sleeve of his jacket and slipped an elastic band on his arm. Preparing and filling his syringe his eyes glowed in anticipation, yet he took his time sliding the needle into his vein, savouring the cold sting as he depressed the plunger and sent the drug coursing through his eager body. Tonight, for a few hours at least, Sim would be at peace with the world.

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Neither man spoke as they walked along the south bank of the river; each was immersed in their own thoughts. At last Sherlock slowed his pace and directed John through a gate that led into the Jubilee Gardens. After a moment or two they came across a bunch of flowers which had obviously been stolen from a cemetery. Tied to it with a dirty piece of fraying string was a piece of newspaper with a picture of Jenny and the words 'Miss you' scrawled childishly in some substance Sherlock was not desperate to identify.

"Why?" John looked down at the pathetic shrine.

"Sentiment"

"Yes, I know…I mean….no, Sherlock, why have you brought us here?"

"Oh. I thought if you knew that someone cared about the dead girl you'd stop feeling so bad about it" All this was explained in a voice devoid of any emotion, just stated as fact.

John looked at his friend with affection, unbelievably moved that Sherlock should go to these lengths, then looked back at the flowers. "How did you know?"

"Tip off from the network. They didn't see who put it there though. I've asked them to keep a look out, see if they can find out and let me know. We don't know who she told about her supplier, and I imagine that thought may cross their minds sooner or later. It could turn nasty if Jenny's paymasters turn up trying to clear up loose ends". He thrust his gloved hands into his coat pockets. "Jenny quite possibly sat here to inject her last fix, and I assume her 'friend' knew that – it was probably habit, always coming back to where she felt safe."

John looked over at his friend, wondering if he was talking from experience. The thought must have shown on his face because

"No John, but I've seen how they behave." He gave a little shrug "They could hardly sit and do it openly. Someone like Jenny would have felt vulnerable to other users as well – the ones who would try to take her fix away from her."

John nodded and looked away again, his eyes taking in the dark shadows of the deserted park. "What a waste."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the sound of his mobile receiving a text message. He flicked it open. "It's Lestrade. Body of a young blond woman has been found in an alleyway off Brick Lane."

The men shared a look, and John gave voice to the thought behind it. "Kallie?" Sherlock just looked at him. "Oh, God….!"

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Sally Donovan glared at the two men as they approached the police crime scene tape. "What are you doing here Freak?"

"Good evening Sally."

"No, it's not a good evening. We've got a dead girl, a freak and a nosy doctor – of the three I could certainly think of two that I wish weren't here!"

"I sincerely hope you didn't mean us, Sergeant Donovan" John spoke quietly, "You see, I for one would wish that there wasn't a dead girl here." He raised an eyebrow at the frowning police officer.

Flustered, she lifted the tape for them. "You know what I meant!" she huffed as they passed her, their attention now on the knot of people standing looking at the heap of clothes on the floor.

As they got closer John's step faltered slightly, then he sighed in relief.

"It's not Kallie" Sherlock stated.

"She's wearing a dress." John commented.

"Prostitute."

"Hmmm"

"All that and you haven't even looked at the body yet!" Greg Lestrade thought he was past being surprised by the curly headed genius, but this was taking deduction to new heights.

"Obvious" Sherlock got closer to the body, flicking his coat out of the way as he crouched over the body, his magnifying glass in hand. "Not British, probably eastern European judging by the name on the chain around her neck – Lucja, possibly Czech, or Rumanian. Not a natural blond, but has enough money to get her hair done professionally…..maybe not, uses what money she has to keep up appearances."

"Why do you say that?" Lestrade frowned.

"John, what do you think?"

"I'd certainly agree that she's using her money to keep up appearances, I don't think she's had a decent meal in days." He glanced up at his friend. "Not using though, you noticed?" he put his head to one side looking at the angle of the body and the way her clothing draped over her, then gently laid a hand on her abdomen. "Oh Jesus, she was pregnant, Greg, I'm fairly sure. Judging by the bump here, probably around twelve to fourteen weeks!" Pushing himself to his feet, John backed away.

"You don't think it was drugs though?"

"No. Look at the mud under her head, there's blood there." Sherlock pulled his magnifier out once more and with the aid of a torch scrutinised the wall "Ah! There it is! Do you see it John?"

John squinted at the area illuminated by the torchlight "Blood" he confirmed.

"Could be murder Lestrade, more likely an accident – manslaughter at best. Paying customer obviously played a bit too rough, knocked her head violently against the wall got scared and ran. She died of blood loss and hypothermia."

"Sherlock…..!"

"Look! In the muck she's laying in, footprints. Hers and one other, too close to be just talking. Then look here, did he tip toe away? No, he ran, scared. He knew he'd hurt her."

Greg, realising his jaw had dropped closed his mouth and glared at John. "Don't say anything!"

"I don't know what you're talking about Greg." John's face was a picture of innocence, then he grinned "You gotta admit though, that was…..Amazing!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you again for reviews – they're what make my world go round!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Kallie realised that kicking the side of the van would do no good; that no one would take any notice – no one ever did. As she rocked around the empty vehicle as it sped round corners her sharp brain was working overtime, trying to work out what her best options were. The cut on her head from where the man she had nicknamed Brute had thrown her in was still bleeding, albeit sluggishly, and she wiped the blood away with her glove...she stared down at the gloves that she had been given, and realised that Doctor John would probably recognise them if he saw them. Taking them off she tucked them into the corner of the van and hoped that if they got rid of the vehicle it would not be by fire. Then, tired and cold, she wedged herself into the opposite corner, tried to prevent herself from being flung about like a rag doll and waited.

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Wearily John followed Sherlock up the stairs to the flat. It never ceased to amaze him how his friend could keep going without food or rest even when recovering from serious injury. The one night of sleep he knew the lanky genius had had before the case kicked off again would have barely recharged his batteries but here he was again – a living Duracell bunny who just kept on going and going. The thought made him grin slightly and wonder what Sherlock would think of that comparison.

"Something funny, John?"

Damn! He hadn't realised that the object of his thoughts had reached the door of the flat and turned to look at him. "Um… no, not really. Just thinking".

"It doesn't work you know."

"What doesn't?"

"Thinking happy thoughts. It won't magically make things happen."

"Really Sherlock? Peter Pan? From you?" John was beyond surprised, more so as he realised that as his flatmate stepped through the now open door he had a slight blush staining his cheeks. "What? Tell me!"

Shrugging his coat off the younger man threw himself into his chair. "Blame Mycroft. When I was seven I had diphtheria, caught it from another child at school. While I was recovering Mycroft would sit and read to me. We went through a number of books…" his voice seemed distant "but that one was particularly unforgettable. I so wanted to be anywhere other than stuck in bed and that was the story that took me to other, more interesting places."

"And the fact that it's full of pirates is simply by the by?"

Sherlock's blush deepened. "If for nothing else, Mycroft will suffer for telling you that!" he threatened half-heartedly, a smile twitching at his lips.

"Dinner?"

"I ordered take-out from Angelo's" Sherlock waggled his phone at John "it should be here anytime."

John nodded, turning away to the kitchen in search of clean plates and cutlery.

The meal when it came was excellent, as always, although Sherlock ate very little. He had retreated into himself, mentally sifting what meagre information he had, trying to find the connections. Knowing he lacked sufficient data wasn't helping; knowing also that John was watching him carefully was distracting. Stifling frustration he watched through half closed eyes as the doctor methodically cleared away the remnants of the meal, storing the left-overs carefully in the fridge.

"I'm turning in for the night," John's disembodied voice floated in from the kitchen. "Do you need anything, other than a good night's sleep yourself?"

"Don't need sleep John, I need to think."

Shaking his head John picked up his glass of water and headed towards the stairs. "Goodnight." There was no response. Sherlock had stretched out in his chair and was already lost in thought.

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At 3 a.m. Sherlock stretched his hand out and picked up his phone. He had turned it onto silent, and now it was flashing insistently. Glancing at the screen he saw the caller was none other than his elder brother. He touched the screen and held the phone to his ear. "What news?"

Mycroft was past being put off by his brother's lack of telephone manners. "My contact in Moscow has advised me that a certain Evgeny Demidov boarded a flight bound for London Heathrow airport some 30 minutes ago. The flight lands at 06.30."

"Katerinochkins fixer? And you are going to let him in?"

"It may surprise you to learn brother dear, that while I am as keen as ever I was to rid the world of these vermin I gave my word to your good doctor that I would keep an eye on the areas that your homeless friends inhabit, look out for anything suspicious."

"And…."

"And a figure in the background of the lady's operations, one Karel Karanov, has been seen hanging around the Charing Cross area trying to keep out of sight of the cameras." Mycroft smiled then, Sherlock could hear it in his voice as he continued "Not very successfully I may add! Karanov has a brother, and the two of them are usually Demidov's gofers, rounding up trouble for the man himself to….ah…'deal with'"

"Yes, I see…"

"Do you, brother?"

"You know already that I am missing one of my network, you believe Demidov's arrival may have something to do with that, more likely that he is here to complete the work Katerinochkin herself failed to complete."

"Please be careful. I have no intention of telling Mummy that you managed to get yourself killed despite my warnings!"

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The sky still dark when John woke with a start. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he glanced across at the clock. Five thirty. He could have wished for a few more hours, but habits ingrained during his army service had him up on his feet and reaching for his dressing gown. Something had woken him, he didn't know what, but he would not be able to go back to sleep until he discovered what it was that had caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness on the staircase he moved quietly down the stairs, his gun gripped tightly in his right hand. Avoiding the creaky second stair he pressed up against the wall, listening. Nothing. That in itself was strange. He should have heard Sherlock breathing at the very least, either from his chair in the living room or the deeper, heavier breathing of him sleeping (although he knew that was wishful thinking) coming from his bedroom, but there was nothing.

Cautiously he stepped down into the hallway and slipped eel-like into the living room. Nothing. Moving lightly forward he scanned the room for anything that looked out of place, suppressing the silent voice that told him that in this particular room nothing seemed ever to be_ in_ place, but the room was exactly as he had left it the night before, minus Sherlock of course.

The kitchen and bathroom were both empty. John tried to relax his tense muscles; this was playing havoc with his injured shoulder. Taking a deep breath he moved on to Sherlocks room, pressing his ear against the door he listened. Still nothing. Slowly turning the handle he cracked the door open and peered in. This room was slightly lighter; the curtains still open from the day before, the bed empty. So, Sherlock wasn't in the flat. Walking back through into the living room he noticed the fire was almost out. That meant Sherlock had been gone a while, so it hadn't been his departure that had disturbed him.

Deep down John knew it was more than just the silence that had woken him that morning. Heading through to the kitchen to put the kettle on he suddenly realised what exactly he had heard – it had been the sound of voices, whispering voices, outside the door of the flat, on the stairs. Carefully he opened the door and looked down, his brain barely having time to register the small box on the doorstep when there was a muted bang and a flash of fire as John was hurled backwards into the hall.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hope you enjoy, and if you do I hope you will review – reviews (and friends!) are my prime motivator! Thank you! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

For a second John just lay on the floor, his ears ringing and his lungs struggling to breathe in the thick smoke that was billowing towards him. His first thought was for Mrs Hudson in the flat below, his next was more practical – how the hell was he going to get out of here? Pulling himself to his feet and trying to ignore the bruises he knew would be forming where his body had hit the floor he lurched into the kitchen. This was to be possibly the only time he would ever be thankful that Sherlock was so fond of exploding experiments – after his first brush with out-of-control flammable gasses he made sure there was always a dry powder extinguisher to hand. Staggering slightly as he fought to keep his coughing under control he grabbed the red canister and aimed the spray at the base of the fire.

Over the noise he could hear Mrs Hudson calling up the stairs.

"Are you boys alright?"

"It's okay Mrs Hudson …*_**cough**_*…. just get yourself..*_**wheeze**_*… outside and…..*_**cough**_*….*_**cough**_*… call the fire bri….*_**coughcoughcough**_*…."

"Oh dear!"

He really hoped she had done as he asked, as he was struggling now with the smoke and the powder in the air, but at least the flames seemed to have diminished. From the corner of his eye he saw reflected in the window the revolving blue lights of a fire engine and sagged back against the wall with relief.

The thunder of feet up the stairs heralded the arrival of two fire officers. They stopped at the doorway and looked at the mixture of smut, ash and mono-ammonium phosphate powder.

The lead fire officer turned to his colleague. "Looks like this is pretty much out – better get some water on it though just to be sure." Then he looked at John. "There's an ambulance downstairs, Sir, if you'd like to follow me."

John looked at the mess in the doorway, and then down at his bare feet. "Yeah, in a minute. I think I'll put some clothes on first!" he grinned, the black ash smudges and singed hair making him look rather demonic in the blue tinted light "You might want to be careful there though – this all started as an explosion."

The officer looked startled, and immediately bent down to look at the debris in the doorway as John wearily moved back up to his room.

Ten minutes later, decently dressed and with an orange blanket draped around his shoulders John was not in the least surprised to see a sleek black car pull up just in front of Lestrades squad car. Mycroft, elegant as ever despite the early hour, rose from the back seat of the car and strolled across to where John sat in the back of the ambulance.

"Thanks Mycroft."

An eyebrow raised in enquiry. John grinned.

"You're as useless as your brother at playing innocent! The fire brigade could only have got here this quick if you'd alerted them. What tipped you off?"

"You did, John. Creeping around the flat, gun in hand – I must say, my men almost missed you moving into the living room – well done! However, we didn't know why you were creeping around so I took no chances and called all three services."

"Yeah, well, like I said – thanks. Now, are you going to tell me where you've sent Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked around the inside of the ambulance as if expecting his brother to be hiding there, before turning icy-blue eyes on the man sitting in front of him. "Wasn't he in the flat?"

"You know damn well he wasn't Mycroft, or the first words out of your mouth would've been 'where's Sherlock'! I've said it to him often enough, now I'll say it to you – I'm not an idiot, please don't treat me as if I am! Where have you sent him?"

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"Big issue mate?" the voice was rough, the hand thrusting the magazine towards him caked in dirt and the detritus of living rough plastered in his greasy hair. "Big issue?" Squinting short sightedly he moved forward.

Tall and athletic, the traveller side-stepped the poor wretch trying to sell his wares and his stern face creased into a sneer. "Ukhodi, gryaz' (Go away, filth.)" he snarled. The big Issue seller seemed to shrivel into himself, flinching as if he expected to be struck – the Russian grinned and continued on his way.

As the traveller moved onto the escalator heading for the underground, the myopic gaze sharpened, and the greasy head nodded, just once. A spotty youth in a parka jacket peeled himself away from the wall and moved with deceptively casual speed in the same direction, only a flicker of his eyes giving away acknowledgement of the other man.

After a little while the vendor shuffled away to a quiet corner where he sat down next to a girl barely seventeen years old who was hugging a cup of tea in gloved fingers. Not a word passed between them. He put his magazines down, and carefully placed his earnings on top of them. A minute or two passed before he rose to his feet and shuffled away, leaving money and magazines behind. The girl smiled. He'd never make it as a Big issue vendor – he wasn't hungry enough!

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The room was bare but for a mattress against one wall and a bucket in the corner. There was no heating, and the walls were stained black with damp. Kallie looked around her prison, unimpressed. They'd thrown her in here the night before, locking the door as they left, and she'd been too frightened and angry to anything other than huddle onto the mattress. To her shame she'd been forced to use the bucket when banging on the door to be let out to use the toilet had met with silence – part of her was thankful that she'd eaten and drunk very little before they captured her.

Now, with a couple of hours sleep behind her she wondered if there was a way out that maybe she had missed. There was a small window, and she was small enough herself to get through it, if only it wasn't so high up. If she stood against the wall opposite it she could see the occasional passer-by, or at least, the feet of passers-by. So, she was in a basement. And judging by the lack of people it was probably still too early for most workers. Her brow creasing in concentration she slid down the wall to think.

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Hammersmith underground station was just beginning to wake up as the grubby magazine vendor, now walking a little taller, exited the train and hurried out onto the street. In the chill morning air he hunched into the threadbare bomber jacket and hurried away towards Overstone Road and a non- descript terraced house. Pulling a key from his pocket he quietly let himself in.

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The Russian changed trains at Green Park, moving with assurance through the sparsely populated station, he was unaware that his spotty shadow had passed the baton to a busker playing in one of the connecting passageways. A moments conversation, and as the he passed out of sight a tambourine was exchanged for a mobile phone and a few banknotes, and the melodious sound of singing changed to the staccato speech of a would-be rapper. Pocketing the phone the singer in her bohemian finery glided along in the traveller's wake, eventually boarding a Victoria line train, travelling south.

Another change of shadow saw the journey's end, in a quiet but run down street in Stockwell, south London. As he waited for the door to be opened Evgeny Demidov looked up and down the rain spattered street. In the grey light of the autumn morning he saw the sullen teenager kicking at the discarded empty cigarette packet as he made his way along the opposite side of the street but dismissed him as unimportant. Once inside, he didn't see the boy pull out a cheap mobile phone and send a text.

**A/N: don't usually do end notes, but here goes….the 'Russian' is courtesy of Google Translate – I apologise to any Russian re****aders if it's wrong!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry this is later than usual – busy weekend (also, the characters were trying to run away with the story, but I got it back – I think!).**

**Enjoy! And if you enjoy, please review – Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

John huffed with impatience as the workmen set about replacing the door of the flat. It was not that they were slow – after all, they'd been hired by Mycroft, they wouldn't dare! – it was just that he wanted to shower, and to work out what his next move should be. He was furious with Sherlock for disappearing off without a word to him – and he would be sure to tell him so in no uncertain terms when he saw him next….a shiver ran down his spine….yes, it must be when – not _if_ – because once he started thinking like that….Damn the bloody fool for going without back up, without at least saying something! Did their recent brush with this gang tell him nothing about the lengths to which they would go to protect their operation? For God's sake he could have died – they both could!

Pacing up and down, he willed the men to work faster. Moving to the living room he picked up his phone and started to send Sherlock a message – then halfway through he cancelled it, he didn't want to compromise his friend's safety. Bloody hell! He felt useless! It had been just two and a half hours since he had woken up, and already he felt he'd had a rough day! He glared again in the direction of the workmen. At last they started to pack their gear, the foreman handing over several keys for the new lock. Mumbling his thanks John hurried them out and shut the door thankfully behind their retreating backs.

Letting the hot water flow over him John realised just how tense he'd been. Combining hard-learned relaxation techniques with the mundane but soothing act of washing the clinging ash, soot and powder from his hair and body he considered his options. He had no idea where Sherlock was likely to be by now – he'd wrung from Mycroft the information that a highly dangerous Russian had been due to enter the country about an hour after the arson attack on the Baker Street flat – that meant that by now he would be out of the airport and on his way to…..well, to wherever his comrades were. He only prayed that Sherlock would have the good sense not to be obvious when he followed him – not an entirely forlorn hope, in his time with the reckless idiot he did sometimes show the common sense everyone else thought he lacked. Still, that wasn't helping right now, and if he couldn't ring or text his flatmate then John could do the next best thing. He would go and talk to John-Joseph, put the word out that Kallie was missing, ensure that the eyes on the streets were looking for her. Satisfied with his plan of action he stood under the water stream and let it wash his body clean….

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….In the non- descript terraced house in Hammersmith a tall figure stood in the shower and washed his hair and body for the third successive time, ensuring the filth of his morning's work was well and truly gone. Pale lids closed over quicksilver eyes and he turned his face upwards to the water, letting it stream over him, washing away the kinks in his muscles as it took the soap from his skin.

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"Why were you trying to stop your friends talking to us?" the Brute had dragged Kallie from her prison to a sparsely furnished room at the top of the house. Now he stood over her, glaring down into her upturned face.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about" she made herself sound sullen and stupid. "ain't got no friends."

"The girl – you know the one." He grasped her chin, squeezing harshly before giving her a shake. "The little bitch that washed up dead! You tried to stop her talking to us. And the cripple girl – we saw you talking to her as well - why?"

Kallie forced herself not to react. She remembered the crippled teenager. She was known as Hobbit among the homeless, a nickname she'd been strangely proud of. Hobbit had been a sweet natured little thing until this gang got their hands on her, and made her a frightened, secretive shadow. It was Hobbit that had sparked her suspicions, and when she had been found dead with a needle in her arm Kallie knew the connection to be true. A sharp stinging slap across her face cut into her reverie.

"Why?" the word was shouted this time and Kallie didn't need to act afraid.

"I wanted money!" she almost shouted back, her body shaking, real tears trembling in eyes and voice. "I thought you were paying them to work for you – I wanted to work too, to earn easy money!"

"Liar!" another slap, this time backhanded across the other cheek. ""They told us…"

"No, no! Please, you gotta believe me!"

The next blow knocked from the rickety chair and onto the floor. As he raised his hand to strike again another man entered the room.

"Makar, enough my brother! If you hurt her too badly she'll never tell us what she knows, and if you kill her Katerinochkin will be angry. She thinks this scrap of filth may know how to get to that detective!" disbelief tinged Karels voice.

Kallie lay still, listening to the words but not understanding. The tone of them left her feeling cold. Suddenly she felt herself being picked up and as the Brute set her on her feet she swayed unsteadily, her legs weak and shaking. She was swept up and thrown over his shoulder before she could grasp what was happening to her, and within minutes had been thrown back onto her mattress in the cellar. Slowly sitting up she bit her lip. She wouldn't cry. Mr Holmes and Doctor John would find her – of course they would!

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Ron Douglas had never seen the like in all his years as a foreman on a building site. Blue flashing lights and police swarming all over, tying off their blue and white crime scene tape and herding his workmen into the portakabin that served as a tea room and office. A tall man with greying hair carefully crossed the uneven ground, pulling a warrant card from his pocket as he approached.

"Mr Douglas? Detective Inspector Lestrade" he introduced himself "Want to take me through what happened here?"

The foreman scratched his head. "We'd only just started for the day. Ted there…" he indicated a stocky man currently talking to Donovan "had just moved the first lot of earth with his excavator when…" he swallowed hard. "…the body just fell out!"

Lestrade nodded. "And you called us straight away? No one touched the body?"

"Touched it? Are you kidding? He had to be dead, him being naked an' all, and buried…" his words trailed to a halt as he watched the detective pull out his mobile and send a swift text.

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Sherlock lifted his phone from the bedside table. The second message had come through as he was getting dressed. Now he read them both.

'_Your man is in Stockwell – Pepper'_

The next was more usual, at least as far as its intended recipient was concerned.

'_We have a body, can you come? – GL'_

His fingers flew over the keyboard.

'_P. Keep watch. Get help if you need. Keep me informed – SH'_

'_Where? – SH'_

He waited, foot tapping impatiently, until the address arrived in Lestrades next text. Not bothering to respond he wrapped his scarf around his neck and left the house, pulling his coat on as he went and wondering if there was a likelihood of a cab in this part of London.

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Thankfully most of the café's morning trade was for take-out coffee, and so John was able to sit at the counter with his cup of tea talking to the café owner without drawing any undue attention to himself.

"Sherlock though Kallie had called from here JJ, before making her way – we think – to the City to wait for him."

John was the only one who used that particular shortening of John-Joseph's name nowadays, but it still made the young man smile. Except that today he didn't feel like smiling at all. He'd just been told that one of the network was missing, the little blond that had been here the previous evening.

"What can I do to help Doc?" the question was automatic, and came without any coaxing or strings attached. The network still considered him one of their own, and the regard was mutual.

"Can you spread the word? We want to know if anyone has seen her or knows where she might be." John put a photograph on the counter, covering it momentarily with his arm as another customer walked in and approached the counter. JJ turned and smiled at the newcomer, and John watched as he moved smoothly from concerned ex networker to café owner, cheerfully chatting as he prepared a long latte take out. When at last he turned back john slid the photograph across to him. It was a grainy black and white picture, compliments of Mycroft and his CCTV cameras. And although it was obvious the subject had tried to avoid being seen, it was clear enough to enable identification.

"His name's Karel Karanov. We believe he's part of a drugs gang that has been targeting homeless kids." John shook his head as JJ started to hand the photograph back "Keep it JJ, if you can show it around the network. Put the word out that we're looking for Kallie, but please, remind them it's dangerous. Don't let them do anything silly. If they have any news tell them to get in touch – no matter what time, day or night. My number's on that phone – if they can't get hold of Sherlock they can get me."

John-Joseph nodded. "Sure thing, Doc. I'll get this out on the streets as soon as I can." He turned to put the picture safe behind the counter when John's hand on his arm held him back. He looked questioningly into the doctor's face.

"Be careful JJ. These people are killers – they've already had a crack at Sherlock and me, they've killed countless homeless kids, and I don't think they'll stop at killing a café owner if they thought you might harm their trade." It was said in a calm, quiet voice, but there could be no mistaking the sincerity of his words. Seeing acceptance and understanding in JJ's eyes john gave a brief nod, finished his tea and left.

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Sherlocks eyes took in the building site and the activity going on around the trench where the body had been unearthed. Anderson was busily poking around in the dirt, the photographer was packing his camera away, having taken photographs from all angles. Lestrade and Donovan were talking to the workmen. Taking all this in, he slipped under the police tape while the constable on duty was still radioing his superiors to advise of the consultant's arrival, causing a minor panic as the young officer had not previously had the pleasure of his working methods first hand.

"Keep your distance! This is a bloody crime scene Sherlock." Anderson stormed towards the taller man, fury in every line of his body. Sherlock just stopped walking and waited until Anderson reached him.

He stared haughtily down his nose at the infuriated forensics officer. "Problem Anderson?" he asked, insolence colouring his words deliberately.

"You know what the problem is! You!" Anderson was beside himself. He hadn't recovered from his unsuccessful attempt at making the consulting detective squirm, less still from the fact that his pet doctor had outmanoeuvred him so neatly. Thinking of John Watson, Anderson peered expectantly over Sherlocks shoulder. The doctor was nowhere to be seen. Anderson sneered. "Lost your pet have you?"

A slight smile curved Sherlocks pale lips. "If you mean John, Anderson, then let me put the record straight – John is not a pet, he's a _real_ doctor!" and he moved smoothly around the blue clad figure, his smile growing wider as the spluttering coming from behind him marked the exact moment that Anderson realised his professional qualifications had just been comprehensively belittled!

"Must you upset my team every time you turn up at a crime scene?" Greg asked as he joined him beside the body.

"Only when your team insult my friend and colleague." The subject was dismissed as Sherlock leaned down to look at the face of the naked man. "You realise who this is?" he asked. The DI shook his head and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's Fazil Sahin, Katerinochkins lackey."

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John was standing outside Charing Cross station wondering what to do next when his phone chirped, alerting him to the text it had just received. Pulling it from his pocket he huffed out a relieved breath as he saw who it was from.

'_Fasse is dead. Meet me at Barts – SH'_

'_30 minutes – JW'_

'_Faster if you can – SH'_

"I'll give you faster!" John grumbled under his breath as he walked towards the taxi rank.

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Molly generally felt a little nervous around Sherlock, but she was honest enough with herself to know that the cause of the nerves was the fact that she wanted him to see her as an intelligent human being. She was also honest enough to know that was never going to happen! Despite this she knew that once she started the autopsy on this latest body her hand would be steady, her professionalism over-riding the effect the enigmatic genius had on her.

She started her methodical preparation of the cadaver on the stainless steel table in front of her, shutting out the frustrated muttering coming from the other side of the room where she had insisted Sherlock stand if he wanted to stay. She vaguely noted the arrival of John Watson, and the fact that he was giving his flatmate the dressing down of a lifetime! Keeping a neutral expression Molly was grinning like a loon inside – which was better than that nice Detective Inspector Lestrade was managing – his grin was threatening to split his face in two!

"I'm glad you're finding it funny!" John turned on the police officer. "You saw what they are capable of Greg – and this supposed genius went off stalking one of their killers on his own….."

"But…."

"I wasn't….

John held his hands up for silence. "Don't want to hear it…."

"Um….gentlemen?" Molly interrupted the argument. "I think you'll want to see this."

The three moved as one to the table, all looking expectantly at the young woman. She blushed slightly and cleared her throat.

"I thought at first that the dirt in the victims mouth was due to the fact that he's been buried in loose earth, but look here…" she pulled the skin away from the chest and throat area and with a sharp knife nicked the trachea close to the lungs. "….the trachea looked too solid, but see here, that's because it filled with earth." She looked up at her audience. "This man had earth forced into his lungs and throat while he was still alive – and very slowly, he choked to death!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks for sticking with me on this story – and for reviewing/commenting/encouraging which you all do so brilliantly – without you I wouldn't be doing this!**

**Special thanks must go to the Big Issue sellers that I used to know in London, and the homeless kids that I met when I did voluntary work there. The ones I had the privilege of working with may not be exactly mirrored in my story's characters, but they sit by my shoulder as I write and remind me that there is a truth behind the fiction.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

The patrolling Brixton police officers spotted the old white Ford Transit van parked in Saltoun Road. They noted that there was no tax disc in the window, and that kids were using it for target practice with their footballs. There was no registered owner, the PNC check had come back with the intelligence that the vehicle had been scrapped some months previously. Calling it into the station they waited for the tow truck to arrive.

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"John I really don't see….." Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled at his friends continued tirade, and that just made John angrier. So angry in fact that he forgot they were in a cab heading home, and that the driver might be distracted by his raised voice.

"No, you really don't do you? Why should you? You only care about the case! Why would you consider that someone might actually be worried about you?"

Sherlock was holding soil samples that he had managed to talk Molly into letting him have (after he had given her explicit instructions about what tests to run on the body of course!) and he looked down at the evidence bags in his hands before looking back at John's face. "You were worried?"

John threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "For a bloody genius you can be a dense sod at times Sherlock! This particular bunch of criminals tried to kill you….hell, they tried to make _me_ kill you! And yet you go waltzing off to Heathrow without a by-your-leave when your equally idiotic brother tells you… " he stopped, suddenly very aware that the cab driver was watching them, wide eyed, in the rear view mirror. On a sigh, his voice almost back to its normal pitch he continued "Yes, you gormless git, I was worried about you!"

An expression that was somewhere between hurt (that John had called him gormless) and surprise (that the same John had been worried about him) settled on to Sherlocks face. Catching sight of it John couldn't help but chuckle.

"Anyway," he added as the cab turned into Baker Street "By running off at some Godforsaken time this morning you missed all the fun!" and he grinned at his flatmate.

"Fun?" Sherlock was instantly alert. "What fun?"

The grin just widened as the cab pulled into the kerb and John shot out of the vehicle, leaving Sherlock to pay the fare. Catching him up as he opened the door to the flat Sherlock almost missed the fact that the door was new, the shiny lock however gave it away, and he stalked into the kitchen and leaned on the counter next to John as he filled the kettle.

"Care to tell me what happened?"

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Anthea knocked lightly on the oak panelled door and walked in without waiting for an invitation, in her hand a thin manila file which she placed on the desk.

"It took a while sir, but the ops team have managed to find more footage of Karel Karanov." Standing on Mycroft's right she opened the file and slid out two photographs. Both showed the Russian, the first was of him loitering at the bottom of Villiers Street, a little way from where he had first been spotted. The second had been captured earlier that day according to the time stamp on the film. Karanov was getting out of a dirty white transit van. He was almost out of sight of the cameras, but hadn't been clever enough to evade them completely.

Mycroft nodded. "Good. He's not as cautious as his friends, either he doesn't realise he's being filmed or he thinks he's untouchable." A small smile flickered on his usually stern lips and he glanced towards the photographs still in the file. "And the others?"

"The others are close-ups of the van. It could have been used to get rid of your brother's informer" Anthea laid out three more black and white shots. "These pictures aren't clear enough to be sure, but that may be Makar, his brother, in the driver's seat. We have the registration number and we are circulating it to all police forces and agencies across the country." She smiled slightly. "I've also texted details and the pictures to your brother."

Mycroft just nodded.

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Sherlock, for all he liked to proclaim himself to be a sociopath, was meticulous in ensuring that the Homeless Network was well organised and not knowingly put into bad situations. All its members were given a phone number that they were to memorise, that they could call at any time if they were in trouble, or if they needed the support of another network member. They could reverse the call charges it really didn't matter, because Sherlock knew they wouldn't abuse the system. In fact he wasn't sure that any of them would have used it at all unless it was to assist him. At the other end of the phone was a homely sounding woman they called Nan. Nan was not as old as she looked or sounded, but at around the time John-Joseph was benefitting from the generosity of Sherlocks happy client, Nans only son Stephen was dying of hypothermia and malnutrition, huddled in a doorway on Oxford Street. Stephen had been approached to join the then newly forming network but had refused. Unusually, Sherlock had seen his death as something of a failure on his part. He recruited Nan to be a safe haven for the others, to do for them what neither of them had been able to do for her son.

In Stockwell, Pepper realised he wouldn't be able to watch the house on his own – this kind of residential neighbourhood didn't really give good natural cover, and he would look suspicious if he hung around all day. Now he pulled the phone from his pocket again and dialled the number, waiting to hear the cheerful, motherly tones at the other end of the line.

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Greg Lestrade sat back in his chair, his office door closed, a fresh mug of coffee in his hands. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily into the silence of the room, wondering if he would ever come to terms with the many and varied ways people found of killing each other. This most recent example made him sick to think of it – and he had been trying very hard not to ever since he left the hospital. He couldn't imagine what it must feel like to have dirt filling your mouth and throat, to try to fight the instinct to breathe, to choke on the cold damp earth….he shuddered and hugged his coffee mug a little closer, trying to warm himself.

The shrill ringing of his office phone was a welcome intrusion into his bleak thoughts and he picked the receiver up with alacrity. "Lestrade."

"Sorry to trouble you Detective Inspector" said the obsequious voice on the other end of the line "I'm Sergeant Hammond from Brixton police station."

Lestrade was puzzled. "Oh? How can I help you Sergeant?"

"We have recovered a van, Sir, one that I understand that you have been looking for. I need to know if you want us to keep it here or is there somewhere else you'd rather we take it to?"

"Van?" Greg rifled through the loose papers on his desk trying to recall the message that had been handed to him ten minutes ago as he arrived back at the Yard – ah yes, there it was! He scanned it quickly. A Mr Mycroft Holmes had advised that a certain white transit van was important to the case he was working on – he grinned to himself, typically Mycroftian language! –and had advised all police forces Nationwide that if found they were not to do anything with it and to advise DI Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. "Ah yes, Sergeant, the white transit. Where is it now?"

"It's still on the back of the tow truck Sir, the notification came through just as the boys were about to unload it so I asked them to hold on until I'd spoken to you. That was right wasn't it Sir?"

"Yeah, yeah that's great." He scratched his chin. "You'd better get it over here. We'll examine it in our workshop. Can you fax over copies of the officers reports, you know, the where and when of finding it – we'll need all the info we can get." He only half listened to the Sergeants acknowledgement as he picked up his mobile and fired off a text to Sherlock.

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John didn't know whether to laugh or be exasperated by the petulant expression on Sherlocks face.

"But John, _really_! Did you have to let Mycroft swan off with the remains of the bomb? I could just as easily have examined it for…"

"Yes you could, if you'd been here. Fact is Sherlock,_ you_ weren't and_ he_ was."

"You knew.."

"Nothing, Sherlock. I knew nothing because you didn't bother to tell me if you recall."

"Oh stop sulking John!" the younger man snapped "There was nothing you could have done."

"Except watch your back maybe." This was said quietly "That's what friends do – remember?" John got up from his chair and walked back through to the kitchen, heading to the fridge and pulling out the leftovers from last night's meal. "Want some lunch?"

The consulting detective felt suddenly wrong-footed by John's reaction. Had he missed something crucial? Rapidly his mind went back over what had just been said, or more to the point what hadn't been said and…._**oh**_! yes, _that_ was it.

"John," he walked into the kitchen and leant on the back of a chair a little way away from his flatmate. "I do trust you, never think that I don't, it's just that there really was nothing that you could have done to help. And besides," he added with a sudden flash of inspiration "if you'd been with me, the flat may well have burned down. You undoubtedly saved my notes and papers from incineration – they're irreplaceable you know!"

John choked back a laugh as he removed the dish from the microwave and divided the now hot food between two plates – he knew when he was beaten! However…

"Eat!" he put on his sternest 'Captain Watson' voice, slammed the plate down on the table and slid a fork across the table towards his friend's hand before sitting at the opposite end of the table and tucking in, studiously ignoring the other man. He heard the sigh of acceptance, the chair scraping out and almost felt the air moving as Sherlock sat heavily and started pushing the food around his plate, finally lifting a forkful and slowly putting it into his mouth. Objective achieved!

The silent meal was interrupted by the arrival of Lestrades text. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Looks like Mycroft's people have come up trumps with the van that Katerinochkins thugs were using. Lestrade is having it delivered to the Yard – care to join me?"

John threw him a dark look. "Prat!"

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By the time they reached New Scotland Yard the van was in the workshop, back doors open, and Anderson was crawling about inside.

"Really Lestrade, couldn't you keep him out?" Sherlocks scathing tones carried through the cavernous building with shocking clarity, and the half dozen or so people working in there turned as one to glare at the man striding towards the vehicle.

"Look Sherlock…"

"Sorry Greg," John caught up just in time to prevent an argument. He turned to Sherlock and spoke in an undertone that only his friend could hear. "Not now, genius, give it a rest for Christ's sake!"

The genius huffed, then looked again at the Detective Inspector. "May I?"

"Anderson, give him two minutes. Everyone else find something else to occupy yourselves with please, this isn't a circus!"

Anderson backed out of the van, grumbling under his breath and clutching an evidence bag.

"Found traces of blood in there." He said to no one in particular. "We'll need to get samples….." his voice faded as John grasped his arm.

"Did you find those in there?" he pointed to the gloves Anderson held encased in the clear plastic forensic bag. Anderson sneered, but as he tried desperately to think of a witty comeback Sherlock snatched the bag from his hand and held it out to his friend.

John paled slightly and swallowed hard. "My gloves," he spoke, disturbing the oppressive silence that shrouded them. "The ones I gave Kallie." Peering closer at the grey wool he suddenly forgot to breathe. "Sherlock, this looks like blood!"


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm sorry – a warning for torture…..please don't hate me! **

**I'd love to know what you think of this chapter – please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Sim was early. He thought he'd probably have time to beg a few coins from passers-by before Micha arrived with his next 'job', but as he snaked his way in and out of the commuters and turned up towards the back of the church he saw the man standing there, half hidden in the shadow of the huge oak doors. Quickly he moved to the shelter of the doorway.

"I have an extra job for you tonight Sim," the Russian spoke quietly. "I want you to deliver the package as usual, same place, but then I want you to come to this address – " he handed over a piece of paper, an address scrawled on it in untidy writing – you can read this, yes?"

Sim nodded.

"There is a girl, a street girl. She is trying to make trouble for us. I want you to talk to her, to persuade her to tell us what she knows."

"Okay," Sim nodded again. "Payment?"

"You will get the usual payment for the delivery, doubled if you can get her to talk."

Sim grinned. "Easy!"

Two hours later he was making his way along a deserted residential street in Stockwell. Ahead of him he thought he saw a familiar figure so he slowed his pace, keeping to the shadows, trying to get a better look. Yes, he recognised him. He'd know that parka anywhere, and the half light of the streetlamps highlighted his spot-ravaged face – he was a regular around Trafalgar Square, his unique style of rap-busking made him instantly memorable. Sim watched for a moment, to see what the boy was up to. It didn't take long to figure out he was watching the address that was written on the paper Micha had given him.

Keeping to the shadows Sim moved towards the house, always with half an eye on the watcher, so when he turned away momentarily and walked up the street a little way to keep himself warm Sim took his chance and moved swiftly to the door, knocking softly and slipping in without fuss. Once inside his eyes sought out Micha.

"You've got a spy outside!" he said dramatically.

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Karel and Makar Karanov moved quietly along from the back gate of the house and out into the street. Their approach from behind went unnoticed by the young man watching the house, and by the time he realised he was in trouble it was far too late! They grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides and manhandled him into the house.

Evgeny Demidov stood in the living room, cracking his knuckles in a deliberately threatening manner. His obsidian eyes raked over the spotty youth who had been thrown into the room to land at his feet.

"You are watching us." Not a question, a statement, spat viciously as he kicked the boy in the ribs. "Your name?"

Fear kept the boys mouth shut, which was unfortunate as the more fear he could inspire the happier Evgeny was with his work. He reached down and twisted his fist into the front of the parka jacket then hauled the boy up, putting his mouth very close to his ear.

"You will tell me what I want to know. I promise you will." He smiled cruelly, his mouth close enough to the boy's ear that he could feel the movement of the full lips. "I will enjoy getting the information from you!"

The Karanov brothers stepped forward and grasped an arm each. The fixer gave an almost imperceptible nod and Karel held the boys left hand out towards him while brother Makar ensured the boy was otherwise immobilised.

"Your name!" Evgeny growled as he grasped the boy's index and ring fingers and yanked them downwards, dislocating them in that single movement. There was a scream, cut short by a hand pressed over his mouth, squeezing painfully, and when the noise died the hand was moved and the question asked again. "Your name."

"K….K….Kenny…its Kenny.." came the sobbed response. "Please…"

"Yes. Beg! I'll enjoy hearing you beg!" and without warning he grasped the remaining two fingers of the left hand and in seconds they too were dislocated at the knuckles.

Down in her basement prison Kallie could hear the screams. She curled up on her mattress and tried to shut it out, desperately afraid that they would start on her next. When the door opened, she scooted back into the furthest corner of the room.

Sim was pushed through the door, stumbling and nearly falling, coming to a standstill in front of the frightened girl. He swung round and ran at the closing door, his fists pounding on the thick wood.

"Let me out! Why am I here? Fuckin' let me out!"

"They won't." Kallie's voice was barely a whisper. At the sound of another scream from upstairs she shivered and pulled her arms around herself as if to prevent it happening to her. "They'll only come for you when they want to ask questions."

"But I don't know anything!"

"Me neither," she smiled a little sadly "didn't stop them hitting me. Sounds like they're doing more than hitting now though!"

"Poor Kenny…."

"Kenny?" Kallie was instantly alert, a frisson of shock and fear running down her spine. "Friend of yours?"

"Yeah. He's a homeless busker, raps in Trafalgar Square a lot. Know him?"

But Kallie had turned away, chewing her fingernails. "Oh God!" she whispered, "Mr Holmes network!"

Behind her Sim smiled a not entirely pleasant smile. He'd heard word on the street about a network, hadn't believed it for a moment….until now. Schooling his features to register nothing but concern for his fellow prisoner. He moved closer. "You alright?"

Kallie flinched at the closeness of his voice. "No. We've got to get out of here!"

Sim jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. "Locked." He said in a hopeless voice.

A small frown creased Kallie's brow as she tried to decide whether or not to trust the boy sharing her cell. She'd seen him on the streets but didn't really know much about him, only that he was a bit of a loner who didn't really mix with the others. Taking a deep breath she pointed up at the high window. "If I could reach that window I'll get out and get help. I know someone who can help us."

"Us?" Sim suddenly looked wary. "How do I know your friend would help me?"

"Mr Holmes would never….." Kallie stopped, eyes widening as she saw the triumph on the other's face. "_No_!" the anguished whisper was ripped from her throat as she realised he was working for her captors.

"Yeah, they told me about Mr Holmes….you stupid bitch!" he backhanded her before turning and banging again on the door. "I've got it!"

Despair filled the homeless girl's heart as the door opened and her tormentors allowed her smirking companion to walk free.

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Climbing out of the cab, Sherlock and John looked up and down the street where the van had been found.

"Why are we here Sherlock?"

"Looking for clues." Sherlock looked at his flatmate as if to say 'you should have known that' before turning his attention to the pavement and a small pile of shattered wing mirror – a consequence of the children playing football against the vehicle.

"You really think it's possible? I mean, it's not as if this has preserved as a crime scene."

Straightening up, Sherlock nodded agreement. "It was a long shot." He agreed, "but not an entire waste of time. Kenny is watching a house less than three miles from here. I'm certain, looking at the area we're in, that Kallie isn't being held in one of these houses. The van was dumped here just so that it wouldn't be found near their lair."

"And their lair is…..?"

"In Stockwell." In his pocket, his mobile chirped with an incoming message.

'_Need help Mr Holmes. They have street kids in the house – Kenny'_

Sherlock swore softly under his breath as he sent his text.

'_Stay out of sight. I'm on my way – SH'_

He looked down at John with a familiar glint in his eyes.

"The game is on, John!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Here we are, the final instalment. I want to start by thanking Jack63kids for suggesting it, MapleleafCameo for encouraging and supporting it, and a very big THANK YOU to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story – it really is the end of my Russian saga – but not the end of Sherlock and John…not by a long way! Read, enjoy, and please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!**

Alexia Katerinochkin sat back in the armchair and looked at the broken remnants of what was once a human being that laying before her on the carpet. Her lip curled as she looked away again, turning her gaze to her fixer.

"You are certain he was working for the detective?"

Evgeny looked calmly back at her. "Quite certain. And your little guest downstairs is acquainted with him. She told the runner she would go to Mr Holmes for help."

Her sharp eyes narrowed as they looked at Sim.

Sim swallowed. He'd seen dead bodies before – hell in five years on the streets you'd need to be blind not to! Every winter death took another old man, another malnourished kid. But he'd never seen one beaten literally to a pulp. Suddenly he wasn't feeling as pleased with himself.

He knew she expected him to speak, but his mouth was suddenly dry. When he finally answered her his voice was a harsh croak. "She wanted me to….to help her get out of the window. Said Mr Holmes would…like…help me too." He'd called the girl in the basement stupid, but who was the stupid one now? Sim felt cold fingers of fear trailing down his spine.

"That man!" Katerinochkin seethed "That man, always interfering, always in my way….!"

"Yes, but now we have sent him a message. He is on his way as we speak!" Evgeny smiled and handed her the mobile he had taken from Kenny "He thinks it's his little spy that has summoned him!"

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Sherlocks long legs carried him swiftly through the dark, wintery streets with John beside him, keeping pace as they moved towards their prey.

"We're not going in alone are we Sherlock?" John voiced a concern that had nagged at him since they received Kenny's text.

"No, I've sent the details to Lestrade and told him to bring back-up."

"Really?" John was surprised, knowing as he did how much Sherlock liked to be the centre of attention, how much he like to close the cases himself.

Hearing the incredulity in his friends voice Sherlock stopped abruptly. "You have a problem?"

"Er…no, not at all" John also stopped. "Just a bit…well…surprised."

"John, this is no time for heroics." He quirked an eyebrow and grinned "however, I anticipate we'll have everything under control by the time they arrive!" and he whirled away again, coat swirling around him like a Victorian cape.

John rolled his eyes and ran a few steps to catch up. "Yeah," he huffed slightly under his breath, "Might've known!"

Neither man spoke again until they stepped around a corner and into the street where they expected to see Kenny waiting for them. Sherlock stopped sharply and grabbed Johns arm, dragging him backwards.

"What…?"

"Kenny's not there John!" Sherlocks voice was a harsh whisper, almost whipped away by the November wind. "I know I told him to stay out of sight, but look at the street, John, from where we are we should be able to see him! If he stood anywhere else but at that corner down there he'd be in full view of the house."

"So he's…..I dunno…..been chased off? Got Scared?"

"Or been caught."

"Shit!"

Sherlocks lip curled. "Eloquent, John."

"Sarcastic, Sherlock!" his friend shot back. "I assume if he's taken then they know we're coming."

The taller man nodded. "They most certainly do." He said "But they don't know when, and they don't know which direction we'll come from." He looked around him then pointed back the way they had come. "We'll double back this way, and work our way around behind the house. There will almost certainly be a back door."

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Micha glanced out of the window once more. Still the street was deserted, not even a passing commuter heading home after a hard day's work filled the emptiness.

"When will he come?" he hissed in frustration.

"Patience," Evgeny Demidov moved to join him by the window. "He'll come. The boy said he won't let his network down." The boy in question was now securely fastened into a couple of black bin liners, waiting for disposal but the fixer didn't care.

Micha looked to his boss. "Shall we dispose of the girl now?"

Katerinochkin shook her head. "Bring her here. They won't do anything stupid if they see we have her, they will try to bargain for her life…." She smiled, a particularly cold and chilling smile, "and then they will_ all_ die!"

Micha nodded at the Karanov brothers and watched as they left to fetch Kallie from the basement before asking "Are you sure? She is nothing - less than nothing - she is homeless filth. Why should he risk his life for her?"

Rising from her chair Katerinochkin stepped nonchalantly over the plastic wrapped cadaver and stood in front of her gang master, running her long scarlet nails down the side of his face just slightly too hard to be considered sensual. Four faint red welts raised where the nails had trailed but Micha didn't flinch, nor did he look away from her cold eyes.

"He is an English _gentleman_, Micha, and English gentlemen don't like to see women suffer however lowly they are – that is why we will win, and he will die!" she glanced over Micha's shoulder, watching as Kallie was dragged, struggling, into the room.

Seeing Sim Kallie screamed at him. "Traitor! You bastard traitor! I hope you…"

Whatever else she was going to say was cut short by the back of Evgenys hand across her mouth, and she slumped, held up only by the grasp the Karanovs had on her arms, spitting blood from the split flesh inside her mouth she sobbed "traitor!"

Sim didn't move, he couldn't. Kallie's accusing eyes pinned him where he stood, and he knew she was right, that he had betrayed his own, and for what? His thoughts were interrupted by the eruption into the room of a very tall, thin man and his shorter, armed friend.

Sherlock lunged at the fixer, taking him from behind and knocking him to the floor. Without hesitation John fired, taking down Makar Karanov and suddenly the room became an explosion of frantic movement.

Realising they had lost the element of surprise Micha grabbed Katerinochkin and the pair ran for the door, ducking and sliding out of the room as John's second bullet skimmed the door frame. Karel moved swiftly, twisting Kallie's arm behind her and pulling her in front of him.

"He's a traitor Doc!" Kallie screamed, pointing with her free hand at Sim. John glanced at Sim and hesitated, just for a split second, as he recognised the youth from their collision on the Embankment.

Terrified, Sim threw himself at John, thinking to use that hesitation to his advantage and get free. John's reflexes were sharp though, as Sim should have remembered from their previous meeting, and he pulled the trigger, the bullet taking the young man in his thigh and effectively taking him out of the equation.

Glancing at Sherlock John saw that he had Evgeny in a choke hold and that the fixer was rapidly losing consciousness.

Under cover of Sims desperate attempt to get past the armed doctor Karel Karanov decided to try to make good his escape, and flinging Kallie away from him he too dashed for the door. John's fourth bullet ripped into him, crippling him. He fell, hitting his head.

Kallie screamed as she hit the edge of the coffee table, and the sound of ribs breaking was heard over the cacophony of noise in the room. Landing on her knees she tried to draw in breath but her body shrieked with pain and her lips gave it voice. Without stopping to see if he'd killed Sim or the Russian brothers John flung himself down beside her.

"Easy Kallie," He gently held her shoulders "sounds like you've broken some ribs…"

"I can't breathe Doc!" panic tore the words from her and frightened tears streamed down her face.

"Take shallow breaths Kallie, don't try to breathe deeply. I'm just going to take a look and see what damage you've done."

Behind him Sherlock dropped the unconscious man onto the floor and quickly checked the injured men. Both Russians were also unconscious, both bleeding heavily. Sim lay whimpering in the corner, all the fight gone out of him.

"Sherlock," John's urgent voice brought Sherlock swiftly to his knees beside the doctor. "We need ambulances, at least three – I don't want Kallie travelling with that scum!" he didn't take his eyes from the homeless girl's thin body, his fingers gently palpating the area under her rib cage. Kallie hissed in pain. Sherlock moved away and called Lestrade, knowing the Detective Inspector would be able to command the attendance of the London Ambulance Service without undue fuss or delay.

Looking into the girl's eyes and smiling encouragingly John broke the bad news. "Kallie, I'm afraid you've punctured a lung. Now…." He gripped her arms tightly to keep her from hurting herself more as the shock of his words hit her. "….I'm going to try to relieve the pressure caused by the air escaping into your chest cavity." Keeping his movement sure and steady he helped her to lay on the floor, tilting her body so her injured side was slightly lower in order to prevent internal bleeding from compromising her other lung.

Pulling a small but sharp knife from his pocket he glanced over his shoulder at his flatmate. "Sherlock, have a look around for me, I need a length of clean flexible plastic tubing or failing that a ball point pen."

Without hesitation the younger man reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a slim Parker Sonnet pen and handed it to his flatmate. "Anything else?"

"If there's a first aid kit I could do with some adhesive strapping, if not see if they have some more of that parcel tape." He indicated the taped black plastic parcel on the floor.

Kallie let out a high pitched keening as the pain in her chest increased. Immediately John gave her his full attention.

"Right Kallie, this will hurt. I'm sorry, I wish I could give you some pain relief but I haven't got any." As he spoke he was dismantling the pen, carefully placing the smooth tube into his coat pocket and discarding the rest.

Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan dashed through the open front door just as John made a small incision between Kallie's seventh and eighth ribs, and they stood transfixed, as did Sherlock, watching the steady hand and listening to the soothing voice as the doctor explained to his patient the exact procedure he was following.

"You need to search for another homeless kid." Sherlock spoke to the detectives without taking his eyes from the operation being performed.

"He's there…." Sims voice was small and frightened, his hand moved to point.

"Shut up and don't move!" John hissed. He had already guessed where Kenny was, and didn't want his patient upset. Sherlock's eyes widened as he too realised the truth, but he forced himself not to react.

Swiftly reaching into his pocket John took hold of the pen shaft and gently worked it into the incision. There was an audible hiss of air releasing from the chest cavity, and the colour came rapidly back to Kallie's cheeks.

"Strapping?"

"Here." Sherlock cut several long strips of the adhesive fabric and handed them to the doctor one at a time so that he could strap the shaft in place.

"Now Kallie," John looked into her face once more and smiled, "You need to be very careful not to push that in any further. The paramedics will be here soon, they'll take you to hospital and make sure you're properly cared for." He rested a hand against her cheek. "You're a brave girl, Kallie. What you did was above and beyond the call of duty, and I'll make damn sure it wasn't for nothing."

Tears flowed freely down the young girl's face, tears of pain and relief in equal measure, but she summoned up a smile for the only doctor ever to care about her and her friends. "Thanks doc!" she whispered.

Moments later the first of the ambulances arrived. As the paramedics stepped through the door Lestrade moved forward to meet them.

"Take the girl first." He said, pointing at Kallie. The paramedic was about to argue, but John stood up and reeled off the presented symptoms, his diagnosis and treatment. This ensured their immediate attention, and in no time Kallie was being carried carefully on a stretcher to the waiting vehicle.

One by one the injured men were carried out until just the flatmate and the two Scotland Yard detectives remained. John and Sherlock looked down at the plastic wrapped parcel on the floor.

"What _is_ in that?" Sally Donovan asked, poking at it with the toe of her shoe.

"Don't!" "Leave it!" both men spoke at once and Sally nearly jumped out of her skin. Holding her hands up in surrender she backed away.

"Okay, okay! I only…."

"Not _**what**_, Sally, _**who**_!" Sherlock crouched down and ran his hands over the unconventional shroud, feeling the shape within. Then with swift economical movements he ripped the plastic, revealing a bloodied misshapen head.

"God help us!" Greg exclaimed. Sally turned an interesting shade of green and stepped further away.

John knelt reverently beside his flatmate and performed a cursory examination of the body.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he said in hushed tones, "I can't begin to imagine what he went through before he died…."

"Then don't." Sherlock stood up and turned away.

John looked up at him with horror. "Don't? Sherlock! This is one of your network! This happened because he was working for you…" his voice trailed off as he caught the look on Sherlock's face as his flatmate turned back to him. He looked into those quicksilver eyes and saw desolation the like of which he'd never seen before, and frankly would never want to see again. The tall man turned again and left the room.

Greg Lestrade moved closer, and John rose to face him.

"I know there needs to be a post-mortem Greg, but when his body's released, don't send him to a paupers grave." John looked down one last time. "If we can't find his family, we'll at least find a way to bury him decently."

A look passed between the two men before John followed his flatmate. As he reached the door Greg's voice reached him one last time.

"We caught them, the woman and one of her men. They crashed their BMW trying to take a corner too fast." As John looked back at him Greg grinned. "Their mug-shots have been all over the place courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes!" He sighed softly. "Take care of him, John. He may be becoming human after all!"

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_**Epilogue **_

_**2 weeks later**_

"That was a good thing you did for Kenny, Sherlock." John sat, staring into the fire, his tie loosened and the top button of his best white shirt undone.

"Someone had to."

"Yeah, but usually that someone is family. Paying for a decent burial and ensuring he won't be forgotten…."

"You would have done the same."

John rolled his eyes. "_**I**_ couldn't have afforded to!" he sat up a bit straighter in his chair and looked across at the man he considered to be – despite his foibles and faults – his best friend. "But don't worry, I won't let on that underneath that cold exterior you're just a big, soft…git!"


End file.
